


The Old Dark House Affair

by laughingacademy



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Old Dark House
Genre: Christmas, Crossover, Gen, Ghosts, Prompt Fic, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingacademy/pseuds/laughingacademy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not exactly A Child's Christmas in Wales, is it?" Illya murmured ...</p><p>"More like Christmas with the Addams Family," Napoleon replied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Dark House Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



> This is an amended version of the story posted at http://community.livejournal.com/muncle/683540.html.
> 
> Prompts: albino, Yoruba.

(with apologies to James Whale et al.)  
***

  
Napoleon squelched a perverse impulse to whistle "Let It Snow" as he breasted the slope and walked to their car. Given the circumstances, it wasn't funny. Preoccupied, he tried to get in on the driver's side, saw Illya's raised eyebrows and remembered, _Oh right._ His partner was turning up the heater as Napoleon opened the front left door and dropped into the shotgun seat.

"You're lucky the rest of the hill didn't come down on you," Illya said. "Well?"

"No one. Hopefully, whoever was in there is on the road and headed in the same direction we are."

There was a brief, grim silence as they considered the other possibilities: that a stranded motorist was wandering over the Welsh countryside, disoriented or hurt; or worse, that he or she was behind them, perhaps already going stiff and blue. Earlier, Napoleon had been silently cursing the weather — pounding rain, then wet, heavy snow — that had slowed their pace to a crawl, but now he was glad. If they'd been traveling at their usual speed, they might not have spotted that part of the hillside had collapsed and taken a car with it.

Illya shifted gears. "We'll just have to keep our eyes open."

After two miles of creeping through a horizontal blizzard (luckily with the wind), their headlights picked out a woman in a knitted hat, long coat and Wellingtons dragging a wheeled suitcase. She immediately turned and began waving both arms frantically. As the car pulled up to her, Illya jerked a thumb toward the back, and the hitchhiker lost no time throwing the luggage onto the rear seat and tumbling in after it.

"Phew! H-hallo! Thank g-goodness you came along! My car w-went off the road. I th-thought I'd be better off t-trying to walk to the n-nearest town than staying wi-ith it, but I was g-getting worried. Oh, my name's G-Gladys, Gladys Waver-t-ton."

"Illya Kuryakin. This is my associate, Napoleon Solo."

"Are you all right, Miss Waverton?" Napoleon gave their passenger a quick once-over. She had a pretty, pale face, strands of blond hair straggling from beneath the hat, and was shivering hard. "Was there anyone with you? We found your car upside down in the ditch and were afraid someone might have been hurt."

"Oh, n-no, just me, and I'm c-cold and a bit shaken up, but that's all. D-did you say upside d-down? Are you sure it's m-my car? A two-seater in h-hunter green? It was just the l-left front wheel in the ditch when I-I left it; the slope must have g-given way. My, that was a narrow escape, w-wasn't it?"

"Well, you're all right now. Sooner or later we'll reach some little hamlet with not enough vowels in its name, and they'll have a cozy inn with a big fire and stiff drinks. First round's on me."

"It's a Christmas miracle," Illya sniped, taking a break from swearing at the damned snow, and the damned illegible road signs, and the damned slippery roads, and the damned useless chains on the tires, under his breath in Russian.

"Th-that sounds heavenly," Gladys sighed.  


*

  
Half an hour later, she was drowsing in the back seat when Illya spotted a glimmer. It turned out to be a light burning over the door of a otherwise abandoned-looking house at the end of a long drive, just visible through the snow and rows of skeletal trees. The wind was blowing hard enough to rock the car on its springs as he let it coast to a stop. "What do you think?"

Napoleon sniffed. "It makes the Bastille look like the Ritz, but any port in a storm."

Illya nodded and turned off the road.

"Whas ap'nin'?" Gladys yawned, sitting up. "Oh. Are we stopping here? What a creepy old...house..."

Napoleon turned up his collar. "You two stay here while I knock."

After he'd spent what felt like a small eternity tugging on the bell pull and pounding on the ancient, blackened wood of the door, the latter opened just widely enough for Napoleon to glimpse a tall — wow, really tall — figure standing behind it. Lamplight gleamed off a single, baleful eye.

"Er, good evening..."

Napoleon trailed off as the door swung open further, revealing a face — or at least, the little of it left uncovered by a lank fringe, heavy eyebrows, and a singularly repulsive beard. He glared at Napoleon before shifting his gaze to Illya and Gladys, who had wiped the fog from the side windows and were staring back.

"Morgan?" shouted someone inside. "What is it?"

"Excuse me," Napoleon called. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but my two friends and I have been driving in the storm for hours, and I was hoping we could take shelter here for a bit."

A cadaverous, grey-haired man in an old fashioned suit appeared. He squinted at Napoleon, out at the car, and up at the sky, before finally saying, "Yes, you had better come in. You may park in the stables. Morgan, give him a light."

"Thank you."

Glowering, the butler, Morgan, handed Napoleon a bulls-eye lantern. Feeling like Paul Revere — _One if by car, two if by sleigh_ — Napoleon waved to Illya and pointed to the outbuildings. Illya nodded and set off. Napoleon followed, walking in the tire tracks, then waded ahead to open the stable doors. As the car rolled past him, there was a scraping noise, and then a long, white face with enormous dark eyes and a red-streaked grin lunged down at him. Napoleon ducked, dropped the lantern, and crouched, hands at the ready ... then straightened sheepishly as he realized he was on guard against a horse's skull festooned with red ribbons. "What the hell?"

The others got out of the car and approached cautiously, straw rustling underfoot.

"It's a Welsh custom," Illya said, stooping to examine the thing more closely. "The _mari lwyd_. In English, it's called a Grey Mare, or a Venerable Mary. On New Year's Day, a group led by someone carrying this on a long pole, and wearing a white sheet, goes from house to house, challenging the inhabitants to some kind of contest — riddles, insults, songs. If the crowd wins, they get to enter the house and have drinks."

"Huh. Well, not everyone can make it to Times Square."

"How did you know that, Mr. Kuryakin?" asked Gladys.

"Oh, Illya knows everything." Napoleon found the pole that the head had been perched upon. "Do you think we'll need this to get into the house?"

Illya took the pole, leaned it against a wall, and set the skull at its foot. "I sincerely hope not."

The trek across the graveled courtyard was a nightmare, with the wind shrieking and shoving them away from the house. At the door, Morgan was no more welcoming -- when they filed past he said ... something, then stalked across the flagstones toward a long dining table and began laying out place settings.

"Was that Welsh?" Napoleon asked sotto voce as they hurried toward an enormous hearth. The fire was one of the few points of cheer in the otherwise dreary hall; the other was a lopsided tree in one corner with tinsel strewn haphazardly over its branches.

"I ... don't ... think so?" Gladys said uncertainly.

"It sounded more like Yoruba," Illya commented, slapping his hat against his coat.

The man Napoleon had spoken with reappeared. "Good evening. Such a terrible night. Don't mind Morgan. Our butler. He has a slight speech impediment — well, you heard. My name is Horace Femm."

Gloria started. "Femm?"

All three men turned to her with varying degrees of curiosity or concern, but before anyone could speak a short, sour-faced woman, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight that Napoleon's roots throbbed in sympathy, bustled up. "What is it? What do they want?"

"Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Rebecca Femm."

Ignoring a ragged chorus of "How do you do?" she tugged at her brother's sleeve and squawked, "What did they say? What do they want? What are they doing here? What's all the fuss about? What?"

"You must excuse my sister, she's a little deaf. In fact sometimes quite deaf. THEY WERE STRANDED BY THE STORM. I'M INVITING THEM TO DINNER."

"That's very kind of you..." Napoleon temporized.

"We hate to be a bother," Illya chimed in.

"They can't stay here. No beds!"

"NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT BEDS. Oh, no bother."

"Perhaps we could use your telephone?" Illya suggested.

"I'm afraid we haven't got one. Really, I think it best you stay, warm ourselves at the fire, and have some dinner. I'm sure the roast is more than large enough, and honestly, the state the roads must be in by now, what else can we do?"

Napoleon turned toward his companions. Illya shrugged eloquently. Gladys visibly nerved herself, stepped forward and announced, "Well, I know what I'm going to do. That is if Miss Femm will let me."

"What?" asked the lady in question.

"I'm dreadfully cold and wet and I'd be so glad if I could go and change my clothes."

"What?"

Gladys said in a louder voice, "I wondered if I might go and change my things."

"You look wet. You'd better go and change your things."

"Thank you." She shot a wide-eyed look at Napoleon and Illya as the old lady, muttering, lit a hurricane lamp and led Gladys down a dark hallway.

Meanwhile, Horace Femm picked up some long stemmed flowers from the dining table and walked toward the fireplace. "My sister was on the point of arranging these," he said, tossed them into the flames, then clapped his hands and looked expectant. "Would you gentlemen care for a drink? It's only gin, you know. I like gin. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names."

Napoleon handled the introductions and accepted the drinks, passing one to Illya. He was desperately glad to feel the liquor scorch his gullet. It was warmer inside than out, but the atmosphere was clammy and the hairs on the back of his neck kept standing up. It didn't help when, a few minutes later, the lights overhead dimmed. "We make our own electric light here, and we are not very good at it," Horace told them. "Pray, don't be alarmed if they go out altogether."

"I know a little about electrical engineering. Perhaps I could take a look at your generator," Illya offered.

"Would you? We rely on Morgan to keep it running, but he's not exactly an expert. Oh, where are my manners? You must have your dinner first. And here are the ladies, just in time. My dear, how lovely."

Gladys tugged at one sleeve of the clingy knit dress. "Thank you."

Rebecca, who was hanging the clothes Gladys had been wearing from hooks on the mantelpiece, felt the material between her thumb and forefinger. "Fine stuff, but it'll rot." She drew near the others, then suddenly pinched Gladys's cheek and cackled, "That's finer stuff still, but it'll rot too!"

"Please forgive my sister. Her piety sometimes gets the better of her manners. Are we ready for dinner?"

What followed was possibly the most uncomfortable meal Napoleon had ever sat through that did not involve weapons or poison. There was very little conversation, aside from Horace's periodic exhortation, "Have a potato." Amazingly, the boiled potatoes were the most appetizing item on the table. Napoleon had heard jokes about English cooking, but evidently the Welsh were even worse. The spectacle of Rebecca Femm loudly and remorselessly devouring her portion did not help. Neither did the looming presence of Morgan as he served and cleared. He tended to linger behind Gladys and Illya, staring at the backs of their heads. Gladys hunched defensively over her plate, while Illya's spine straightened and stiffened until he could have served as an ironing board.

They had progressed to coffee and port, and Morgan had retreated to the pantry, when Gladys abruptly asked, "Mr. Femm, has your family had this house long?"

"For centuries."

"And you, were you and your sister living here about thirty years ago?"

"Yes. Why?"

"In that case, I think you may have met my parents. Philip and Margaret Waverton?"

Illya and Napoleon exchanged _did you see that coming?_ looks as their host brightened. "Of course! I thought you reminded me of someone. Waverton, yes ... and they had another fellow with them, didn't they? Such a long time ago. The weather was nearly as bad as now. They weren't the only people the storm drove here; there was another couple, a dark-haired actress and a large, loud man who sang about roast beef."

"That was Sir William and Gladys, my godmother. She was a chorus girl, but she left the stage when she married my parents' friend, Uncle Roger. He ... he was badly hurt that night."

"Ah. Yes. He fell from there. How is he? And your parents?"

Napoleon and Illya twisted to see where Horace was pointing. It was a gallery running from the top of the stairs to a doorway, which apparently led to the upper storeys.

"They were all fine the last time we spoke. But Mr. Femm, what I really want to know is ... is your brother in this house?"

"You mean ... Saul?"

"What's that? What's she saying?"

"SHE WAS ASKING ABOUT OUR BROTHER."

"Oh! So you want to know about ... Saul? I can tell you about him." She leaned toward Gladys and snarled, "He was the worst of them, though they were none of them any good. They were all godless here. They used to bring their women here — brazen, lolling creatures in silks and satins. They filled the house with laughter and sin, laughter and sin. And if I ever went down among them, my own father and brothers — they would tell me to go away and pray, and I prayed — and left them with their lustful red and white women." She pushed her chair back and stood. "I'm going to go away now. I would do the same if I were you."

"Not exactly _A Child's Christmas in Wales_, is it?" Illya murmured as they watched her disappear down the corridor.

"More like Christmas with the Addams Family," Napoleon replied.

"I suspect the Addamses would be jollier."

Unaware of the commentary, Horace said, "To answer your question: no, Saul is not here, and I do not expect him to join us this evening. In a way it's a pity: he liked storms, and always appreciated a good fire. But it's for the best, even if it means Morgan is in a mood. Morgan used to look after Saul, you see, and in his way was even fond of my brother. Between missing him, and the weather ... The fact is, Morgan is an uncivilized brute. Sometimes he drinks heavily. A night like this might set him going and once he's drunk he's rather dangerous."

"Oh," Gladys said faintly. Overhead, the lights flickered.

"Speaking of Morgan, and the weather, shall we examine your generator?" Illya suggested. "Napoleon can keep Miss Waverton company."

"By all means. Follow me. We can just look in on Morgan along the way."

Gladys had claimed an armchair close to the fire. Napoleon sat opposite and leaned forward. "Are you all right?"

She laughed nervously. "I'm okay, really, it's just — it's so bizarre! It's all exactly as Mother described it. My family likes to tell ghost stories at Christmastime, and my favorite, growing up, was about how Mum and Dad got lost in Wales once, long before they had children, and spent the night in the spookiest house with the craziest people. I just can't believe they're still here! They weren't young then, so they must be ancient now."

"Was your mother's story what brought you to this neck of the woods?"

"Not really. My original plans fell through."

Napoleon gave her his most winning smile. "Tell me about it."

Soon, having coaxed Gladys into recounting her travels and shared a somewhat abridged of version of his recent travels with Illya, he'd sufficiently distracted her that she was laughing when Illya and Horace re-entered the hall. "Mr. Femm, I hope my partner earned our keep?"

"Mr. Kuryakin — I hope I said that correctly? — was most helpful. Obviously there's not much that can be done about the wiring tonight, but I shall keep his suggestions in mind. And he made dealing with Morgan much easier."

"When Mr. Femm and I passed the pantry we found Morgan ... indisposed. We thought it prudent to lock him in his room to sleep it off," Illya explained. "Incidentally, I suspect that he trained as an electrician by watching Frankenstein movies."

Gladys had leaned back in her seat with a sigh of relief, which drew Horace's attention.

"Excuse me, Miss Waverton, but I wonder if you would care to join me on an errand? I need to go upstairs for my father's dinner tray. Did your mother tell you about my father?"

She gaped at him, then recovered. "Ye-es, she did. Sir ... Roger, is it?"

"Roderick. Sir Roderick Femm. Your parents were kind to him, and I think he'd be very pleased to meet you."

"I'd feel the same, I'm sure. Are you sure he's up to having visitors? Only, I understand he's ... rather advanced in years."

"Well, we'll see if he's awake."

"Is it alright if Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin come with us? Do you mind?"

"Keeping you company could never be a hardship," Napoleon said.

Horace looked surprised, but said, "If you like. Come to think of it, one of you can carry down the lamp on the table outside Father's room, just in case the lights do go out."

"His father can't still be alive!" Gladys whispered as they started up the stairs. "He was over a hundred!"

After mounting many creaking stairs, the four of them quietly entered a bedroom. Someone said, "Who is it?" in a papery whisper.

"Father, we have guests. May I present Miss Gladys Waverton? She's the daughter of the Wavertons who passed a night with us all those years ago."

Gladys approached the bed, Napoleon and Illya close behind her. A tiny figure was tucked beneath the sheets, with only a gaunt, whiskered face showing. His pale skin and hair seemed to glow in the dim room. Napoleon felt mild surprise that the invalid didn't have the pink eyes of an albino.

"Hello, Sir Roderick," Gladys said. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Good evening, my dear. I wonder if I might trouble you to give me a little water?"

Gladys found a pitcher and water glass on the bedside table, and helped the elderly man take a long sip.

"Thank you. And who are your friends?"

"This is Mr. Solo and My. Kuryakin. They gave me a lift after I had to abandon my car."

"You're policemen, aren't you? We Femms have had dealings with the law. Though its been a long, long time since we've done anything that would concern you, heh heh heh..." His eyes closed and his head nodded.

"I think we should leave now," Horace whispered, and led them out. At the bottom landing, he paused. "My room is just here, and there are others down that passage. Oh, I should have had Morgan make up beds for you. I'm afraid the linens will be in a terrible state —"

"I would be perfectly comfortable in a chair by the fire, with a blanket," Illya said.

"Me too!" Gladys blurted.

"Mr. Solo?"

"I guess we're having a slumber party."

"Just as you like. Here's the linen cupboard. Good night."

Some time later, Napoleon gingerly prodded a log with the poker. Gladys was curled up on a love seat, Illya was slit-eyed in an armchair, and Napoleon was about to stretch out on the hearthrug when a glutinous chuckle drifted from upstairs. Illya raised his head. "Did you hear —"

This time it was a cackle, a noise devoid of cheer or sanity.

Gladys sat up, saucer-eyed.

Napoleon stood. "All in favor of going to sleep in the car."

The girl gulped. "Aye."

"Seconded," Illya said.

"Motion carried. Gladys, don't forget your clothes."  


*

  
Shortly before dawn, Napoleon was awakened by an actual cockcrow. Next to him, Illya grunted, opened his door and rolled out of the driver's seat.

"Is it morning?" Gladys asked plaintively.

"Guess so. Shh, listen — the wind's died down. Maybe the snow has stopped."

Illya pushed open the stable door, took a few steps outside and stopped suddenly. "Come look at this!"

Napoleon and Gladys emerged, blinking. "What's —" Napoleon began, and then fell silent as his eyes adjusted. Next to him, Gladys gasped.

In the pale pink rays of sunrise, the Femm house was a derelict shell. There was at least one yawning hole in the roof, and most of the windowpanes were broken or missing. Napoleon, peeking through the open front door, saw snow drifted against the overturned dining table, and realized that what he'd thought was a Christmas tree was actually a shrub covered in icicles, whose roots delved between cracked flagstones.

Napoleon felt a poke at his shoulder and turned. "You're not going to disappear, too, are you?" Gladys said anxiously.

"I wasn't planning on it. Illya?"

"No. You are not going to vanish from the car and leave Napoleon's jacket draped on a tombstone, are you?"

Gladys shook her head, and they retreated to the stable.

Napoleon looked sideways at Illya. "Do they tell that story in Russia?"

"They tell that story everywhere." A moment later, he asked, "Do you think the road's been plowed?"

"I don't care if it is or not, we are _leaving_."

Minutes later, the car was a dwindling dot in a world of white. The _mari lwyd_ watched them go.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for kleenexwoman, who said "absurdist/dark humor okay and welcomed." That gave me the idea to have Napoleon and Illya wander into a ghostly reprise of the 1932 film _The Old Dark House_, a spooky comedy of manners directed by James Whale (who is remembered primarily for _Frankenstein_ and _Bride of Frankenstein_, both starring Boris Karloff -- who also played Morgan, the Femms' butler -- as the Monster). I needed an Innocent, so I decided to give some of the film's characters a daughter.
> 
> The Welsh tradition of the _mari lwyd_ had almost entirely died out by the 1960s, but has since experienced a revival.
> 
> _A Child's Christmas in Wales_ by Dylan Thomas is a wonderfully nostalgic prose poem, and is one of the first things to come up if one Googles "Wales" and "Christmas."
> 
> _The Addams Family_ (whose main characters could be the Femms' friendly American cousins) and _The Man from U.N.C.L.E._ debuted within days of each other in 1964, the former on ABC and the latter on NBC.
> 
> The Vanishing Hitchhiker is a staple of folklore and urban legend, and variants of the story can indeed be found around the world.


End file.
